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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351734">Stretched Too Thin</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/courting_insanity/pseuds/you_guys_are_losers'>you_guys_are_losers (courting_insanity)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Cheating, Dark, F/M, PeterMJ - Freeform, Spideychelle, argument, fight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:54:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/courting_insanity/pseuds/you_guys_are_losers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How much weight can a spider's silk bear?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michelle Jones &amp; Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stretched Too Thin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We never kissed.” </p><p>Peter never thought that his life would bring him here: to the center of the apartment he just bought with MJ, standing in the middle of all of the piled boxes and the orange glow from the streetlamps outside the window. A feeling of emptiness sinks in his chest, and it’s more painful than any injury he has ever sustained while running around with the world on his shoulders. </p><p>At least when he is hurt while fighting, there is blood welling from the wound or the throbbing of a bruise: something to remind him he is still alive. As Peter stands here now, he feels like he is floating, tangled in webbing and bobbing above the ground. He can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think as the hollow numbness in his chest spreads to flood him with nothingness from head to toe. </p><p>It feels cold. </p><p>“We never even met more than three times, and we didn’t… Do anything. We just talked.” </p><p>Peter is looking anywhere but his girlfriend, who is standing two feet away but somehow feels much farther. He knows what he will see if their eyes meet: he will see her face in all of its constancy. He will see dark eyes locked on his own, searching. He will see a carefully composed mask, separating emotions from the truth that is on her lips. </p><p>It is the face he has always loved for its honesty, that has now been forever changed by that same lust for truth. </p><p>“When?” </p><p>He doesn’t remember planning on saying the word, but when it tears from his throat it is husky and constricted, more like a cough than a word. </p><p>The answer meets the air quickly, like a bullet from a loaded pistol. Peter has dodged plenty of those, but he knows that these will land and leave scars forever. </p><p>“Two weeks ago. While you… While you were in Cairo.” </p><p>Another threat, another battle. The perfect place to hunt a Scorpion, and another victory to wear on his chest for his effort. But is it worth it, compared to what he has lost for his time? </p><p>He does not ask anything else, but MJ is speaking anyway. The words are heavy but swift as they leave her lips, each another blow. </p><p>“It was the DA in the Kleinfield case.” </p><p>Peter does not move, blinking blankly as he registers the name of MJ’s latest client. The dusty floorboards of the apartment squeak beneath his feet as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He remembers the night they first moved in, sweeping the broken glass and carpet fibers from the wood and putting a blanket over boxes as a tablecloth for their Chinese takeout. He remembers falling asleep in MJ’s arms on their frameless mattress, the sheets slipping off the corners and the chill not quite reaching them so long as they were tangled together. </p><p>He’s cold now. </p><p>“It was a case that I… That I didn’t believe in. They come sometimes, and as a Public Defender you can’t turn them down.” </p><p>“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk about this stuff. Attorney-client privilege.” </p><p>“This is more important than my work, Peter.” </p><p>“Or it’s just getting easier and easier for you to betray people’s trust.” </p><p>There is quiet between them now, and it is not the contemplative, easy silence that he and MJ have perfected to a tee. He knows he’s struck a nerve, and something in Peter pangs with guilt. He never wanted to cause her pain… He remembers looking upon her the first time they kissed, at the worry that had creased her brow at the blood weeping from his cuts, and swearing to himself that he would do his best never to put that expression on her face again. </p><p>Maybe he wasn’t the one who needed to worry. </p><p>“We talked after the case.” There is something tight in her voice now. It reminds Peter of a clenched fist. She is not going to swing with it if she can help it; she will stay calm. The rational one. Always careful, planning her next step. </p><p>Then how the hell did this happen? </p><p>“He… His arguments were clean, honest. He didn’t use cheap emotional appeals or play dirty. I fought my hardest because it’s my job, and he respected that, but he also saved me from having to go home knowing I’d let a guilty woman walk.” </p><p>“So we met for coffee.” </p><p>Peter draws in a sharp breath, turning his back on her. There is a stabbing pain in the back of his throat as he listens, his own hands balling so tightly that his nails jab into his palms. If he’s not careful, his super-strength might cause him to draw blood. Maybe he doesn’t have to be careful. Maybe he can give up control over this one thing; after all, she wasn’t careful. God knows he should be allowed a slip-up. </p><p>“He invited me, and we went to a cafe. We sat, drank coffee. Talked. About work first, then writing, then a few other things. I only went one more time after that, and that was it.” </p><p>“And did he ask you to come again?” </p><p>Peter’s voice is quiet, composed again. The words are terse. MJ draws in a breath, and then she speaks again in a tone matching his. </p><p>“Yes. I said no the couple times he texted after, and then he stopped messaging. Nothing happened, Peter. I’m not proud of it, but it didn’t mean anything.” </p><p>“I’ve known you a long time,” Peter breathes, turning back. Her feet are clad in the Spider-Man slippers that May bought her as a joke last Christmas, and Peter doesn’t look anywhere else. However, the tension she holds in her body extends all the way down to her toes.</p><p>“I’ve never known you to say anything you don’t mean.” </p><p>A beat. </p><p>“You have every right to be angry.” </p><p>“Thanks for reading me my rights. Good to know the law is on my side even if you aren’t.” </p><p>For the first time, the tension she is holding creeps to her voice. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake, Peter. I know it’s my fault, I know that sorry won’t make it better. But… I am.” </p><p>“I thought it didn’t mean anything, so what do you have to be sorry for.” </p><p>“Peter.” </p><p>His eyes finally snap up to hers, and it is just as he predicted. They bore into him, deep and dark and piercing. He can see the tangle of hurt and frustration that gleams within them, and her brow is furrowed the same way it is when she is looking over documents for her work, trying to figure out how to make them say what she wants to. </p><p>Well, he won’t. It’s not rational, the pain and sadness that bubble up in him like magma from a split in the earth, but he can’t seem to force them down. Maybe it’s the exhaustion; maybe it’s the weeks spent in the blistering heat pursuing leads to stop a man who hurt thousands. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the hunger that is currently gnawing at his stomach. But he can’t keep it all in anymore, not after months of being called away to fight the next big, bad guy. </p><p>He can’t keep it in, not even for her anymore. </p><p>“Why the hell did you tell me?” </p><p>His voice breaks as he looks at her, and he feels a painful stinging in his eyes that throbs in time with the lump in his throat like an accompaniment. </p><p>MJ blinks, and for the first time Peter sees some indication that she is rattled. She makes her living anticipating questions, anticipating responses. He knows what it looks like when she is on the receiving end of an inquiry she isn’t prepared for. </p><p>It doesn’t happen often. </p><p>“It’s the truth.” </p><p>The words are a reflex for her, spoken as if they are the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe they are, to her. A draft breezes through the house, probably something that snuck through the window frames. Peter is already colder than he has ever been, but the little breath of wind ruffles the few curls that have escaped MJ’s messy bun, the ones that are lit orange by the phosphorous lamps. Goosebumps rise on her arms beneath her ratty, Columbia University t-shirt. </p><p>The urge to offer her his jacket is overwhelming, but Peter manages to resist it as the silence stretches on. </p><p>“So you didn’t tell me because you thought you owed it to me,” he murmurs, his voice starting soft. As he continues speaking, it rises slightly in pitch, and though he is not yelling, he cannot keep the pain from his voice. </p><p>“You didn’t tell me because it’s the next step to rebuilding, to moving on. You told me to make yourself feel better.” </p><p>“Peter, you know how I feel about-” </p><p>“About truth? Yeah, I do. You worship it.” </p><p>“Don’t interrupt me.” </p><p>MJ’s eyes have narrowed slightly, and Peter knows this look. It is the same one that crosses her face when a witness is being evasive on cross-exam. </p><p>“I screwed up, Peter. I hurt you, and that’s something I… It’s not what I ever wanted. You can be angry. But don’t speak over me.” </p><p>“So that’s where you draw the line?” </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“That’s the boundary you can’t cross? You can have an– an emotional affair with someone, you can text and talk on the phone and meet up with someone behind my back, but the moment I cut you off, that’s where your tolerance runs out?” </p><p>MJ steps towards him, and there is anger in her eyes now. It is desperate, wild, defensive. It doesn’t look that far from sorrow, really. But Peter can tell that she’s clinging at it with the same claws she uses to grasp for truth for those who deserve it, to drag the truth, bloody and bruised, out of the cracks and caves it hides in and into the light. </p><p>“That’s not a valid argument, Peter, and you know it. Those two things aren’t comparable. It’s a fallacy of logic.” </p><p>“That’s your problem with what I’m saying?” </p><p>He takes a step closer, too, and his voice rises to pure, broken desperation as his shoulders slump. </p><p>“I can tell you I’m hurt and frustrated and-and you’re concerned with the validity of my argument’s premises?” </p><p>“No. I can tell you’re overwhelmed and lashing out, and I’m trying to focus you on where that hurt really comes from.” Her voice is collected, but only just; her eyes are pleading, but she has not let down the wall she had up the moment he walked in the room. </p><p>“I’m not one of your witnesses, MJ!” </p><p>The statement bursts from him, and for some odd reason Peter almost feels like laughing as he brings his hands up between him, clutching with clawed fingers at the air as if he is trying to grip onto nothing. </p><p>“You can’t set me up in front of you to extract what you want me to say!” </p><p>“I’m not trying to do that, Peter! You’re not a witness, I’m not– you’re so much more than my work to me, Peter. I love you.” </p><p>“If I’m more than your work, then how did this happen?” </p><p>“I was alone, Peter!” </p><p>The words burst from her lips, and they’re the first thing Peter can tell she really did not mean to say. In an instant, his face clears of emotion. Everything just feels heavy, as if the effort of even maintaining an expression is too much. </p><p>“I didn’t mean to say that.” </p><p>“No, keep going.” His words are monotone, robotic.</p><p>A pause, in which the only sound is the rattling of the thin glass windowpanes and the whining of the house’s old, weary bones. </p><p>“I… I missed you, Peter.” </p><p>“I was gone for three weeks.” </p><p>“Please let me talk.” </p><p>Peter purses his lips, eyes not leaving her face. There is something pleading in it now, something that twists his heart like a dagger to the chest.</p><p>“I… I know it was only three weeks. But I just-” MJ’s face tenses, and her lips shrug downwards as she swallows, trying to find the words. </p><p>“I missed you before that. You’re so selfless, Peter, and I’ve always struggled with the fact that I’m… I’m never going to be able to match how good you are.” </p><p>Peter feels the stinging in his eyes intensify. His face is cold, unfeeling. </p><p>“Always helping, always putting your life on the line. Morocco, Berlin, Egypt, Italy, you just– You change the world every day. And when you come back, I can see the ghost of the parts you give away to those people.” </p><p>Marble. He is marble. </p><p>“And I help people, I’m not trying to diminish that. But it isn’t–it’s not black-and-white, it’s not… It’s not simple. I don’t get to leave the people I helped, knowing I made their life better.” </p><p>Tears spark in her eyes, and she does not bother to address them as one slips free. Her face does not change. “I get to be told that… That I’m helping the villains. The ones who did it, and who are trying to get away with it. For all the good people I help, there are the ones who are guilty, and I’m-I’m good, Peter. I’m good at what I do.” </p><p>“Good for you.” </p><p>“Please.” </p><p>The streetlamps turn the tears the color of liquid gold, orange and glowing in the dim light. </p><p>“I couldn’t look myself in the eye in the mirror. I couldn’t look at all of the things that… That were here, reminding me of high school and college and the person who wanted to make the world a better place, not turn cheaters and liars and oppressors back into it.” </p><p>“So I told Harry about it. I told him, and I… I let things go farther than they should. I did it. I did it, because I couldn’t look into the eyes of the man I love and tell him that– that for every bad guy he’s put away, there’s one I’ve released.” </p><p>Her voice breaks, and Peter finds himself taking a step closer. He wants to wrap his arms around her, let her bury her face in the crook of his neck so that her curls tickle his cheek. He wants to watch one of the Planet Earth documentaries that they watch after a bad day, to eat cannoli from their favorite bakery tangled up in the quilt May gave them for their five-year anniversary. </p><p>He wants to look into those eyes, through which hope pierces the tears, and to tell her that everything is okay. </p><p>But he’s tired… So tired. The kind of tired that life inspires and nothing but time can erase. </p><p>And even then, there’s still a smudge on the paper. </p><p>Peter stares into her eyes for one moment, the broken feeling in his chest only growing like a fault line to his heart. He catches his breath, and then he is turning, shrugging back on the shoes that he had slipped off by the door. </p><p>“I’m going to May’s for the night.” </p><p>“Peter.” </p><p>“I understand, Michelle.” </p><p>“I know you do.” Her voice breaks then, and she doesn’t move. It is quiet for another moment longer. “But I was hoping…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. </p><p>“I know,” he breathes, his hand lingering on the knob. He tries to swallow the pulsing lump in his throat, and the words that follow catch after the unsuccessful attempt. </p><p>“I was, too.” </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>//Hi, everyone! I hope you guys are all safe and healthy in these crazy times. If you're looking for distractions or a specific type of reading, hop on over to @you-guys--are-losers on Tumblr and shoot me a request. I am answering as many as I can, as quickly as I can, and I'd love to know if there's something I can do to make any anxiety and stress easier to handle. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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